


Saving a chocobo

by Verdin



Series: This Too Shall Pass [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, How Prom ended up in Lucis, Other, Vision Quest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-20
Updated: 2017-07-28
Packaged: 2018-11-16 11:57:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11252682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verdin/pseuds/Verdin
Summary: What began with bad dreams turns into a strange journey through a world Cor neither likes nor really understands.Set about 12 years after his fight with Gilgamesh. Tags will be applied when appropriate.





	1. In which weird dreams are dreamt.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [invisibledeity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/invisibledeity/gifts).



Smoking the mixture of roots had sounded like a good idea at first. Well, not like a worse idea than everything else on this trip.

It had started with a recurring dream. Even more then a decade after Cor's loss to Gilgamesh's blade, that dance with a merciless, elegant opponent spouting wisdom and mockery, the Immortal repeated their encounter in his dreams. Always severing the arm, and always losing in the end. Gilgamesh's words made even less sense in his dreams than they had to his young mind during the encounter, and even while Cor was sure he understood the words, they were lost upon awakening.

The dream that came every night since a month was different. He was back in the cave, walking over those ancient stones, but he was alone this time. No whispers, no unsettling questions, no souls to verify his worth. Even the bodies of those who came before him were gone, and with them the stench of decay. Only moist stone and moss and air that had not been breathed for ages. He descended down into the darkness, and with every step, the feeling of dread grew.

Someone was here, watching him, or maybe it was something? He wanted to shout, to tell this strange presence to show itself, but his angry words faded into nothingness before they even left his mouth. When he finally reached the bridge, his legs sore like he waded through swamp, it was empty.

Only the severed arm lay there, enveloped in tendrils of red smoke, slowly pulsating like ethereal veins, the forefinger outstretched, pointing to a place somewhere in the chasm, between fissured surfaces that were made of mirror shards instead of rock, nerved with veins of glowing crystal. As Cor's gaze inevitably followed this armor-clad hand, he saw, and he beheld...

And he woke up in cold sweat and the certainty he had forgotten something important. His muscles hurt, and each morning was worse than the evening that came before.

When he almost fell asleep on duty, he asked for help. Discreetly. There was no shame to admit that a man in a stressful position like him had trouble sleeping, and when the pills did not have the desired effect, they sent him to somebody to talk to. Cor forwent to tell them that the pills made everything worse, that they only drove him deeper into those all too real dreams.

The doctor that was supposed to help him through words listened patiently, nodded and then offered to hypnotize him.

“It will be easier to remember things, I promise”, she smiled, and Cor nodded reluctantly. He laid back in his chair, took deep regular breaths, and listened to her soothing voice telling him about sunlit fields and a road under his feet.

He must have fallen asleep, but as he opened his eyes, she was sitting behind her desk, her notes and a glass of hard liquor before here, observing him. The Immortal had seen plenty of unhappy people in positions of authority and recognized the signs. His hopes didn't went higher when she wordlessly handed him a glass for himself.

“That bad?” he asked after the first sip.

“I'm afraid this is out of my sphere of competence.” A forced smile. “As I understand, your encounter with this _Gilgamesh_ was very unusual and has left marks deeper than we thought. I may have an idea though, but it is a bit, let's say, unconventional. Are you willing to give it a try?”

It took the rest of the glass, then a second one and detailed explanation on her part to convince Cor to at least think about it.

 

The address the woman on the phone gave him turned out to be a factory for ball bearings, a modern, rather functional building in the industrial area. One gray box among many others. The woman who welcomed him was in her forties, salt-and-pepper hair cropped close to her scalp, her shoulders as wide as his own.

“You expected something else, didn't you?” She grinned, sinking her hands into the pockets of her grimy jump suit after a short, firm handshake. “Name's Dareen. Didn't think you'd actually turn up.”

Cor wondered if she was in any way related to Titus Drautos. The same stance, the same way of moving and even a certain resemblance in the face. She seemed the type to take a statement like this as a compliment, but instead asking her about kinship, he asked about ball bearings. It was a mistake.

Dareen loved her job, and after a tour through the whole factory, he knew entirely to much about ball bearings and was convinced the world as he know it could never roll without them. She was talking with an enthusiasm that was infectious, and he found himself playing with one of the smooth steel balls, twirling it between the fingers.

“But you did not come here for this”, she finally stated, right in the middle of a sermon about all the beautiful uses of ball bearings in the machinery of war. “You came because of a message you don't understand.”

“If you put it this way... probably, yes. You think that's what it is?”

“It's an educated guess. Folks like your friend have a knack for showing rather than telling, and sometimes they are hard to understand. You can't blame them, really. Their frame of reference is so completely different from ours.”

“There are more like Gil-,” he stopped when she lifted a finger to her lips.

“Creation is a huge place, love, and there are all kinds between the Six and us. But let us not talk about these things here. There is a better place for words like these.” She stretched out her callused hand, and Cor took it after a moment of hesitation.

 

 

Dareen led him through the bowels of the factory. The masonry here was different, telling tales of buildings way older than the one above. Steel framework to reinforce the structure, raw bricks, patched with fresh mortar here and there. On those bare walls scribblings with black and red marker. They reminded Cor of the runes that kept the campsites safe at night, only these were more graffiti than wards against the darkness, traced and retraced by fearful travellers.

“ And you are sure this place is safe?” His feet splashed through a puddle of dark water that dripped from the ceiling, filling the air with an sulfurous stench.

“As long as I stand, this place will.” She did sound reassuring. “And it's got strong roots. The world above may burn, but this place remains.”

“You... speak from experience?” Cor was not sure if taking this woman down would be easy when push came to shove. Maniacs sometimes displayed surprising skills, and if his estimation was right, she might be his equal in strength. On the other hand, she sounded so reasonable during the time they spent together, and she was probably right. He didn't know much about that side of the world. Since his clash with Gilgamesh all the need for strength that had drawn him there in the first place was focused on physical and military prowess.

Her grip tightened slightly. Her hand was warm and dry, and while Cor was counting the steps, trying to remember the way, a little part of him was thankful to have her close. The further they walked, the more a feeling of unease settled in the pit of his stomach. He was stepping on strange ground, even if he was welcome here.

“In a way?” A melodic laugh bubbled from her lips, and he noticed himself smiling. “Won't be long now.”

 


	2. In which other things than ironwork take place.

They stopped at a door. The thick wood had blackened during the years, and heavy iron fittings held it in place. Faint light poured through cracks in the material.

Dareen guided their entwined hands to the surface, letting him touch it here and there. Not only wood, but also another kind of metal as an inlay. As Cor's fingers followed the pattern she drew, he felt heat growing under his skin. There was a symbol on that door, one that he almost could see, if it only wasn't as dark. He was sure of that. In his mind, there was the memory of the way the air shimmered over a dark road on a hot day.

With a little click, something opened, and when his guide pushed their hands against the wood, a feeling of intense heat rushed through him, leaving him gasping in surprise.

Coppery firelight spilled over them like a wave, filling his lungs with heavy smoke, taking away his breath for some fear stricken moments, until Dareen simply pulled him over threshold. Then there was air, and not more than a faint scent of sulfur and ash.

This place was a smithy, as blackened and ancient as he knew them from pictures in children's books, where creatures under the hills crafted weapons and jewelry. The only light here stemmed from the coal glowing in the forge. The masoned hearth was the heart of the round room, the fire pot large enough to have room for the body a child. The coal got brighter as they entered, pleased its mistress had returned. Cor's gaze fell on anvils, on walls covered in racks filled with tools and half-finished workpieces. For once, his silence was not caused by military habits, but by a lack of words.

His guide let his hand go. “Please, look around.” He could feel the pride in her low voice, and he did. Heedfully he took a cutlass here, a dagger there, letting his fingertips glide over delicate inlays and decadent encrustings. He allowed his curiosity to carry him from piece to piece, trying some of them for their balance, wielding it if it was particularly to his liking. If this was her work, she was a master, and yet, no piece here seemed finished.

“Stunning”, he finally managed, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Thought you'd like that.” The pride in her voice was obvious. “Why don't you sit down and tell me with your own words why you came to me? I know what you told me on the phone, but maybe there is less place for shame and concealment here.”

While Cor was lost in steel and precious stones, she had set up to stools and a low table, on it a decanter with water and two porcelain bowls. He sat down opposite her, watching her fill the bowls. Drink. He did the same. Waited. It was hard putting into words what he had to tell her, wanted to tell her.

“Don't tell me”, she finally said. “Tell the embers.”

He looked at her, slightly irritated, but then turned his head to face the forge, focusing the tiny flames dancing on the coal. He opened his mouth, and he told them.

 

His voice sounded weird to himself while the words spilled out, that of a fifteen year old boy in the middle of voice break, not that of a seasoned warrior. He told them of the fear that never really left him since that day, that came back worse and worse every time he dared to close his eyes. That he loathed that feeling of helplessness, the certainty of having made a really bad decision for vain reasons, and he told them the dream. Not the condensed version he told to the doctors, not the one that let him keep face, but the whole thing.

In the end, when words ran out, he wiped over his nose with his sleeve, mumbling something thankful when Dareen handed him a hanky.

“I understand.” She sounded genuine. “Thank you for sharing. Would you mind doing me one more favor?”

“Mh?” he turned to face her again before greedily emptying the porcelain bowl. She refilled it, and he took another gulp, looking at the tiny waves running over the water's surface. His hand were shaking.

“Close your eyes. Think back to the bridge. You stand behind a young man in black, his dark hair cut short. He is looking into the distance, a blade in his hand. You look over his shoulder, following his gaze. What do you see?”

Cor's head turned, eyes closed.

“An egg.” he whispered.

“Describe it.”

“It's the size of my head, maybe bigger. Yellow. Darker spots, like freckles.” The porcelain bowl fell from his hands as he stretched them out to take something that was not there and shattered on the stones under his feet.

His lids flew open, the pupils large. “I... I'm sorry”, he muttered.

“No harm done, love. Things break. Things get fixed.”

Cor was frozen, only coming to his senses when she hugged him, held him tight to save him from drowning in bad dreams. He was crying like a child now, soaking her gray jumpsuit in tears and snot. She let him, only releasing him when his sobs calmed down to measured breaths.

“You can wash your face over there, if you like”, she stated casually, pointing to a bucket of water, and he did, first splashing the cold liquid into his face, then dunking his whole head into it.

When he rose, shaking his head like a wet dog, she chuckled. “Think you can listen to me for a minute? I do know this was arduous, but I have things to do. That is not the main thing, though. I will make proposal now. It will sound strange, but you may have noticed this is a strange place. You will leave after I made this proposal, and take one day and one night to think about it. Then you either come back or you don't. Nothing that has been spoken here will leave this room, I swear. Ready to listen?”

Cor huffed, then nodded.

“You will go on a journey. You will find that egg and peaceful sleep, or you will die trying. You will not talk about what you'll see on this journey to any mortal, no matter how hard they pressure you. I will encase the memory in your heart like a diamond in a setting. If you decide to go on this journey, you will neither eat nor drink anything but pure water from the moment you leave my smithy until you return. Do you understand this, Cor Leonis?” Her voice was thunder, and he felt it deep in his guts.

He took his time to memorize her words as well as his tired head was able, reciting them under his breath. Finally he nodded, ever so slowly. “I understand.”

“Then you will leave now. Open the door, and you will find your way. If you decide to accept my offer, you will return safely. I will be waiting for you.” She rose from her chair to guide him to the door. Her hand on his arm felt even warmer than it did before.

“But...”

“It is your decision, love.” She tousled his short hair.

“Think about it.” Then he was out in the darkness. Had it been that cold before?

 


	3. In which decisions are made

The walk back wasn't even half as long as it had been. Less of a labyrinth, more a simple cellar. The graffiti were faded writings on the wall, left by a worker years before. Cor's hand slid over the bricks. They felt less real then the heat in the smithy, just a stale copy. Even when he exited the factory, the world seemed beneath a veil. He had similar experiences when he was hungover from evenings out in town, but this time his mind was clear.

He still was not sure if all this was not a product of lack of sleep. Ratio told him it was, and yet he was not convinced. It felt too real, but maybe this only was a warning his desperate brain gave?

It was only now that he noticed the color of the sky. How was it morning already? He came here when his shift ended, and that was before nightfall. A look at his cell phone verified his fear. Almost 6 am. He had to be back on duty at 8, when his princely highness had a an appointment in the royal gardens. It was playtime-after-breakfast-time, and Noctis had to be kept busy while his parents attended matters of state. That was enough time for breakfast and a shower. At least he would be presentable.

 

Little prince Noct was a bit groggy himself this morning. Breakfast was a trial once again since it contained veggies, and he used up all of his energy for vociferous protest. Now they both sat on the well trimmed lawn between the royal rosebushes and stared at a heap of building blocks. Noct once again tried gnawing on one, only to assert that this was just as inedible as carrots, throwing it away before Cor could take it from him. His highness had now decided that it had to be the fault of the color, and so he started sorting out all the orange blocks, commenting with a resolute “Bah.” on every one he found.

“Noctis. Please.” Cor protested softly.

“Bah.” Another block flew, this time hitting Cor's knee upon landing. The little prince was too tired to put any real effort in his throws, and so it did not really hurt. The blue puppy-dog eyes looked at his watchdog defiantly. “No!”

“Noctis, please stop this.” He rubbed his face and yawned while the toddler went and got his chocobo plushie, a shaggy yellow bird almost as big as himself. Being dragged around everywhere didn't do any good to the animal's fluffiness, but Noct refused to leave him behind. The toy was well loved, and it showed, even though the court tailors did their best to keep it mended.

“You fere, bird. Sit,” the toddler commanded as he placed the bird on the lawn and climbed on its back.

“Wanna go visit the stables, Noctis? Pet the big birds?”

The little prince thought about it good and hard, and then came up with an answer.

“No. Stinky birds.” He pursed his lips.

“But you like them.”

“Yes.” He nodded gravely and hugged the plushie's neck, rocking from side to side like he was riding in a slow pace.

“So, is there anything you want to do? Play hide and seek? Read a book?”

Again a minute of heavy pondering before the answer came. “Nooo. Too tired.” He blinked and just tipped over, his arms still around the chocobos neck. “Stowy.”

“A story? But no book with pictures?”

“Stowy. Tis is 'n orda.”

“Did your father teach you that?”

Noctis giggled in delight, then opening his little mouth for another big yawn.

“Cover you mouth please, or you'll swallow the world.” Cor admonished him gently. He was not good with stories, but the little prince was almost asleep, so a short one would suffice.

“Alright, a story. Well. Let me see.” He had to stifle another yawn himself before he started.

“There once was a knight. He was very brave, but not very clever, and he rode on the prettiest white chocobo. One day this knight got a quest from his queen. He should go out and find...” The first thing that came to his mind was 'egg', so he went with that.

“...an egg.”

“Egg?” Noctis interrupted him. Eggs were where cakes and chocobos came from, which for him both belonged to very good things. “A pwetty egg?”

“Oh, a very pretty egg. It was big and yellow and shiny and had many spots on it, here and here and...” Cor's finger nudged the prince's chubby cheeks to paint invisible dots, and Noct squealed in delight.

“But the knight was scared, because the way to the egg was far and dangerous, and he did not want to leave the kingdom behind without protection. He was not sure what to do and...”

“Get te egg, dummy. Kween order.” The prince had hidden his head under the chocobo, so that came out a bit muffled.

“You think so, your highness? Then that is what happens. The knight saddled his trusted bird and rode out...”

The story Cor told was not a very good one, for it was long and rather boring, and soon only the birds in the trees and the carps in the royal pond were awake to hear the ending, and those weren't very good listeners.

As he watched the little prince sleep, the black hair buried under yellow plush, it was him that had time to think good and hard, and in the end, he came up with an answer.

 


	4. In which a journey starts. Almost.

“So you are back.” Dareen hadn't even properly opened the door before she said that. “Thought you'd come. Sit down, will you? Gotta finish a piece I'm working on, make it nice and sharp.”

Cor slipped through the crack like a cat returning home. The warmth that radiated from the hearth drew him in, promising to banish the coldness and fatigue from his bones.

“Over there. Take some water and tell me about your day.” The soldier did as he was told, taking a bowl of water and sitting down on the anvil closest to the workbench she returned to.

“Business as usual”, he stated noncommittally. Answering with the truth would have led to further questions, and even if he was here as a civilian, he still didn't want her to see him as a nanny in uniform. “What are you working on?”

The monotone of metal on a whetstone stopped. “A little something for you to take on your journey.”

“A weapon?”

“In a way.” She didn't look up from her work and began grinding again. “Have you squared away your things, in case you don't end up where you should?”

“Years ago.” A sober statement. Cor had written his will before he joined the Crownsguard, and he updated it regularly. Not that there was much to pass on. The memories with the few people he was close to already were in their possession, and what little worldly goods he had would go to the right people. “When will we start?”

“Can't wait for getting this done, can you?” She laughed. “Well, -my- day was pleasant enough, thanks for asking. I had a decent breakfast, a meeting with a moron how thinks I'm not interested enough in the politics of my trade to know who he is, and a hearty lunch. Now you say that you didn't have anything but water, cause I asked you not to consume anything else. Is that right?”

“It is. But why?”

“Because in preparation for your journey, you will consume a mix of certain roots and herbs that would probably get me arrested if they weren't as forgotten as they are. Some folks are way to bound to their living ways to easily cross over the threshold, and these will help you with it. They are way more effective on an empty stomach. But that's not the main reason.” She paused and held up the weapon she was working on to check the light dancing on the edge of its blades.

“The main reason is that sometimes the stuff makes the travelers sick to the bone, and you don't want to end up dead in a ditch just because that piece of cake you had for tea didn't want to stay with you.”

“Those are scissors.” Not even pretty ones at that, or as polished as most over things here were. They looked ancient and black, about one cubit in length, and mean as a crestfallen lover.

“If you come with a weapon, you come as an enemy. If you come with a tool, you come as a wayfarer. You once were only given a lesson because a wise man recognized that you were too young to understand the difference. When you come this time, you are not a child anymore, and you will be treated accordingly.” She closed the scissors, listened to the sound they made and nodded in content. “Cold iron, old and true. There's a piece of a star in her blades, to let you find your way home.

“I've seen daggers less long and sharp than this thing.”

“Only because I play by the rules, love, does not mean I'll let you go untended. They sometimes have rather interesting takes on pacts, and some of them will not be willing to make a bargain at all, so it might be necessary to use different approach. Don't ever attack first, no matter how hard what they tell you hits. Do you understand that? It does not matter if they make lewd jokes about your mother or tell them exactly what they did to the one you love most. Do not raise your hand against them before they do.” She leaned against the workbench, giving the scissors a final polish with a piece of linen before wrapping them in it. “Take her. Give her a name before we start, and remember it well, so you can call out to her in times of need.”

Cor's face was a rare sight his comrades would not have believed he had in him. It was painted in utter confusion, and as Dareen looked at him, she laughed in delight.

“Those are -scissors-”, he repeated slowly.

“They more useful on the battlefield you're going to than any sword. Try to avoid fights, if it is possible. I can't promise it will be.” She offered the package to the Immortal, holding it in both hands, and slightly bowed when he took it.

A name. “Forfex”, he said as he weighed them in his hands.

“But that's just 'scissors' in your... oh well. Your name is Cor, after all, so that's probably only suitable. Never really got behind how literal you folks take your baptisms.”

The young soldier was not one to discuss the cultural history behind Insomnia's naming traditions. His majesty himself would probably love to explain to the smith the intricacies of the hopes and burdens a name carried here. He had seen him do so once to some ambassador and almost lost himself in how animated Regis' features became. It was rare that the king shed that much of his burden while in public, and while the ambassador only nodded politely, Cor was listening with wide eyes. Not so much because of what the king was telling, but because how he told it.

When Regis looked over to him by accident, smiling, his eyes bright, the Immortal felt a deep blush painting his cheeks and hoped to the Six the king was too busy to notice.

“You are of a rare breed, boy.” Dareen's voice ripped him from his memories. “Think too much and talk to little. Usually, it's the other way round. Do you have any questions before we start?”

Cor mused, his hands very still on the linen fabric. He spent the last day thinking about this, wondering what all this would and should be like and only came to one conclusion.

“I have no idea what I'm supposed to do.”

“Thank you from sparing me from any military lingo. I will make it short and sweet then, if that's okay for you?”

The soldier nodded. Admitting that he was a fish out of water had never been easy for him.

“You want to follow the path Gilgamesh's hand points out to you. I'm gonna help you with that. Gonna give you a compass showing you the right direction, and gonna send you on the way. After that, you're out for yourself. No idea whom or what you will meet on this way, sorry. Try not to mess with them, try not to barter about things you can't afford to loose and trusts your guts more than your head. Roger that?”

“And how will I find my way back?”

“Forfex will take care of that, if you ask her nicely, but maybe it's a good idea to give you a little extra to make her task easier. Sooo...”, she scratched her head. “Anything else? Or are we good to go?”

“I think we're good. I hope.” He stored the scissors beneath his jacket. Easy to draw, but hard to see.

Dareen clapped her hands. “Wonderful. I suggest you go and take a leak before we start the ritual. Once we're on it, we may neither pause nor speak, or we'd have to start all over again the next night. And now, look me in the eyes and tell me you are ready. If you are, that is.”

Cor looked into her eyes, huge and black like a well too deep to hear the splash of the coin thrown into it, and he told her. Then he went to take a leak, for that was the first of her orders that truly made sense to him.

 


	5. In which Cor leaves this place

When he came back, she had changed. A clean white undershirt and dark trousers, wide enough to double as a skirt, and bare feet. Not only her face reminded him of Titus, but her muscles did, too. The smith signified him to take off his jacket, to take off his shirt, and Cor did so without much ado.

She had him sit down in a circle of ash, his face towards the glowing embers, and kneeled down beside him, starting to paint him with soot. Circles and lines became a black labyrinth on his skin, and the Immortal relaxed into the touch of her warm hands. It felt like putting on an armor, or rather, being wrapped in a blanket as a child when he was sick and full of fever dreams. Something to ward off the monsters. His eyes were closed even when she painted his face, feeling her presence before him like the afterglow of the sun behind closed lids.

Her hands glided down his left arm, opening his hand. A little tap into the palm told him to look there, and as he looked, she presented him with a little silver knife, pointed where the lifeline ran over the skin. He nodded, and she made a shallow cut, the blade so sharp he barely felt it. As the red welled up, she placed a silver thing along the cut, not longer then the first digit of a little finger – a simulacrum of an arm in elaborate armor, tiny finger pointing outwards. He felt it melt into his skin, not more painful than some spilled hot wax, and when Dareen dabbed away the crimson drops and he dared to move his hand, it didn't even feel foreign. Just a strangely colored bump on his skin. She gave him a thumbs up and smiled.

Cor smiled back wryly, everything but sure if that really was a reason to smile. If this was the way Gilgamesh would show him what he needed to show him, he would accept it for now.

The smith helped him back into his clothes now, careful not to smudge the patterns on his skin. She patted the jacket where Forfex was waiting strapped beneath the fabric, seeing if the scissors were safe and sound. An eyebrow raised in a mute question made Cor check his new tool, drawing it effortlessly and storing it again. Both nodded, and she rose to get a simple wooden box.

As she kneeled down again, it was in front of him, but outside the circle of ash. She placed the box on the floor, opening it like a jeweler presenting their newest creation to a high-paying customer. In it, upon a velvet cushion, was a delicately carved meerschaum pipe with a long shank. The pattern was a continuation of that on the soldier's skin, but quite the opposite in its execution. Where broad strokes and callused hands had painted on the man, the finest chisels had left their marks on the stone of the pipe. Once it had been white in color, now the hues of the material were like those found in the forge, yellow and red and amber.

Dareen now opened the tin that lay next to the pipe. Various kinds of herbs and resins in tiny pieces, only here and there something resembling the cut tobacco he knew. Before she started filling the pipe, she threw a dash of it onto the coals, raised her hand to the ceiling, then touched the earth. A gesture of offering. The fragrance of the rising smoke did not reach Cor's senses.

She now handed the pipe to him, waiting patiently until his hands were placed just right, then tipping her finger on her own lips. As he placed the bit on his lips, she closed her hands as in prayer, blowing into the space between them. The tiniest spark flickered to life, danced over her skin like a drunk firefly and finally settled on the tip of her index finger, where it slowly grew to the size of a candle flame. A click of her tongue sent it flying into the bowl.

While the Immortal was smoking, her hands danced through the white strands that rose from his lips, collecting, spinning a thin, translucent thread, weaving it around her own wrist, then around Cor's. She watched his eyes glaze over, getting lost in the spirals and the glow over the hearth, and she was ready to take the pipe from his hands when he got up to follow smoke and hand in his own hand to where he needed to be.

 

The Immortal inhaled deeply, keeping the smoke in his lungs as long as he could. She had been right. It was among the worst things he had ever tasted. The intense bitterness was not masked by anything, and the first reflex was to spit out anything that ever came in contact with that aroma. Then came a severe onset of doubt that made him sick to his stomach, and as he wondered how long he could a single breath – for it already felt like an eternity, this was not supposed to be how long a human could hold his breath, by the Six, how could anything taste so disgusting, this was not doing anything, she was just fucking with him, yes, she was poisoning him, that was what she was doing, oh Astrals, so bitter – a single spark among the coals caught his eye. It was pretty. Silver, a twinkling like a star in the skies, and as his gaze fixed on it, others came into view, tiny dots in the darkness over the road. How could he have missed the road? It must have been there all along.

He exhaled, watching fog swirl up ahead in intricate patterns. Spirals weaving around barren trees caught between spiderwebs. It was cold here, damp. A night late in autumn, when the mist rose, making the world a clammy place where dampness crept into every tiny opening, leaving no shelter. The air smelled like earth and rotting leaves, and he drew his jacket closer around himself.

 


	6. In which Cor meets a boy

 

His first steps were shaky, as if the ground hadn't completely solidified. The hand in his hand was weirdly warm, and he felt the temperature change as his hand moved over his chest. For an instant, it was almost burning, but there was not the experience of pain that would have followed without fail if there was a real burn. Cor inspected his palm, then repeated the movement. The silver arm grew warmer, than, in a certain position, hot, and then colder again.

After a little experimentation he understood that it was not the position of his hand, but the direction it was facing. So this was Gilgamesh's way of giving guidance? That it happened through pain was oddly fitting.

The hand seemed intent on keeping him just aside the paved road, as inviting as that even surface was to walk on. The Immortal fell into the steady step of of soldier scouting unknown terrain, and didn't take any time to explore beyond the grounds that he needed to pass to get ahead. He was not a person to be easily scared, but these woods gave him a feeling of unease that made him regret tactical retreat was not an option.

It was quiet. Too quiet. He wondered why there worn-out words popped up in his head, only to notice they were kind of true. This place was not without life, but every noise was washed down and muted, dissolving in the fog. Under his feet twigs broke and gravel moved, but only a faint memory of it reached his ears. The creatures that existed here kept their distance from the invader in his heavy boots, and he was thankful for it.

The further he got, the harder it was to make his way through the underbrush. What had been dead wood and mushrooms – at least he decided the weirdly soft things he sometimes scrunched under his soles were only mushrooms, but yet he did not feel the need to investigate – had turned into thorny bushes that teared at his clothes. Tiny red berries glowed under their leaves, and wispy threads of spider silk wove patterns between them. Those tiny threads posed more of a problem for the traveler than he had expected. Even a single on of them was strong enough that a tailor would happily accept it as new material for his trade, and where some of them were spun together, even his sturdy hands had a hard time to tear them apart, so zigzagging through the shrubbery was the preferable option to going in a straight line.

For quite a while he wandered, silently thanking Dareen for giving him this compass. The webs were a maze that grew more and more complicated with every step, and he felt lost even with the clear direction. It was only when he noticed his path closing behind him, being woven tight by tiny spiders, that he reached for Forfex, ready to cut his way through, but hesitated. This was not an _attack_ , was it?

“Stop it.” Maybe they could be reasoned with, and he added a “Please” for good measure. They indeed paused for a moment, only to continue their work with renewed fervor. Cor was reminded of the little prince. Sometimes he was bent on doing something, especially when he wanted to show a new thing he learned, and neither good words nor threats would keep him from finishing his plan.

“You want to take me somewhere?” No reaction this time. He sighed and went deeper into the labyrinth between the trees.

 

Time passed.

There was no thirst or hunger here, at least not for him. For a while, the spiders were guiding him along a small stream of clear water running through a rocky bed. It looked natural enough, but he could make out raw mosaics on the ground in some places, pictures of fishes and of a creature that looked like an octopus gone wrong in ornamtal stylisation. Gilgamesh agreed with the direction he was taking, and his steps had slow down to a walk. He wanted to save his breath. Just as Cor was musing how long he had been here, an only too familiar sound made its way through the surpressed noises of the world surrounding him. A tiny, breathless whimper, the wail of a hurt animal, pleading and full of despair. He froze midstep. Listened. It was not far from here, and even though he was not willing to leave his path, it hit a place in his heart where the violence of the recent years had not managed to create the same thick layer of armor that steeled him against most pleas. He shook his head and went on, trying to banish the pity that nibbled on his heart.

“This is not my order.” he told the spiders, and for a moment he felt multiple faceted eyes staring at him. “But then... I don't exactly have an order, do I?” He rubbed his face. The smith had told him to trust his guts more than his head, and maybe it was at least worth a try.

“Would you bring me to the one who is suffering here?” he asked, followed by a “The one we hear.” just to clarify. A milling mass of many-legged bodies closed the path before him and opened a new one, deeper into the forest. The Immortal hoped they not only understood his words, but also his good intentions.

 

Time passed.

He had not seen the smooth, skinlike bark of the trees for what felt like hours. Were they leading him in circles through this maze, where everything was covered in pale silk? The doleful sounds had grown louder, or wishful thinking got the better of him.

Shapes hung between the trees, vaguely humanoid. Here and there there surface of rusted armor under the webs, ancient and foreign in design. Sometimes a thing that might have been a branch or a weapon, impossible to tell.

“Hello?” He tried to shout, but the words came out of his mouth like through a thick layer of cotton, bound by the fog. “Anybody there?”

Oh, this was useless. Hunting a ghost, nothing more. He strayed from his past for nothing.

“He...” His head jerked around sharply. That was a voice, strained and high like that of a child. “He... hello?” The boy, it must be a boy, and he tried again to find the power to call out for his saviour.

“Where are you?” he tried to shout, asking the spiders in a lower voice the same, urging them to hurry.

“Are you him?” Cor recognized fear, and those words were filled with it.

“I'm not him, whoever that is! Just a traveler! Hold on, will you?”

“Don't leave me...” So feeble now, and the boy started sobbing again.

“I won't! I promise!” The words were out of the Immortal's mouth before he thought them through, and the little “Well shit.” that came now was meant for the spiders and the world at large.

 

“Well shit”, he repeated as he found the boy that hung in the trees, arms stretched out wide, long blond hair like a halo around his head, held up by silken threads. He couldn't be much younger them him, but a soft face and a load of tiny freckles made him look so very young. Big blue eyes stared down to Cor, swollen and red from crying

“You're real?” Fresh tears were runnning.

“I... I think so, yeah. You don't look so peachy.” Cor was lacking the right words for this situation. The boy was lacking all of his lower body, and the men he met in that situation usually were screaming for a short while and then very dead. The spiderwebs were keeping his intestines where they belonged, but even this way, he would not be of this world for long.

“You're real!” His lips trembled, and he smiled under his tears.

“What happened to you?” He stepped closer. The boy hung too high, way above his reach. Cor's head barely was on the level of his heart.

“I'm dying”, the fair boy stated, “but that's probably obvious.” The sad try of a chuckle. Cor never was a friend of gallows humor, but he allowed it in this case.

“How long have you been here?”

“Oh, been hanging around a while...” As nobody laughed, he bit his worn lip, and suddenly, his voice was full of tears again. “You won't leave me? You promised...”

“I can't help you... I'm so sorry...” Cor's hands were checking the injuries, and the boy shivered under his touch. His first impression was right. The webs kept him from dying, but even with the medical attention he could have gotten in Insomnia, this boy was a goner.

“You can. Please, please, you can.”

“You've got a name?”

“Only a number. Nobody ever cared enough to give me a name. Listen, traveller, I can tell you what to do, if you will do it. You must be brave for me, because my hands are bound, no, I mean, please, will you, can you, please...” His voice ebbed into sobs again.

Cor took a deep breath. A part of him was horrified, but another saw this boy, this puppy, and wanted to end his suffering. “So what shall I do?”  
The boy swallowed hard. The determination in his eyes was that of a warrior before certain death in a glorious battle. He had waited to utter this plea for way too long.

“Open me up and take my heart with you.”

“What?”

Under his freckles, the boy blushed. This was not going according to plan.

“End me. Please. Let me die.”

The Immortal carefully touched the spiderwebs, and the boy with no name nodded.

“Do you think this will hurt?”

“Yes.”

“Will you stay with me til I'm gone?”

“Yes.” Cor put every ounce of honor and adoration for this brave little boy into this one word, and the boy understood.

“Can I... can I have a hug before you do it?”

 

Cor held him in his arms for a long while, listening to his frantically beating heart, and finally he pulled the silk from him, as he had promised, and he held him while they boy slipped away without even a gasp. The spiders separated the threads holding the body, allowing the traveller to take him down and put him to rest in a shallow grave he dug with his hands.

He followed the boy's plea and took his heart from his chest. No flesh, but an intricate piece of clockwork, dark with blood. The hand in his palm grew scorching hot as he touched it.

For a time, he sat with the memories and the feeling of relief that lingered over this place now. Then it was time to walk on.

 


	7. In which a river is crossed.

It took him a while to find his path again, even though the spiders seemed on his side now, opening shortcuts and building bridges over gaps in the ground. Back to the river it was, or a river at least. Cor was not sure if it was the same one, not because a man could not cross the same river twice, but because it was wider, its waters dark and deep and angry, smelling like the sea and violets.

     He never particularly cared for flowers, but he once had an instructor for close combat that had a fondness for those tiny little perfumed pastilles made from sugar and crushed petals, and every time he found himself tackled to the ground, hot violet breath near his face, he grew to know and despise their smell a little more.

     Cor was sure that other people would have found this place wildly romantic, for as he walked on, lush green started covering the banks, filled with tiny white and lilac blossoms. Even the trees slowly exchanged their dress of spider-silk with green leaves, and he noticed that fewer and fewer of his eight-legged companions dared to travel with him.

     The mist was still here, drowning out something that made him think of birdsong first, but note by note he realised that no bird could sing this way. As he concentrated on the repeating pattern he heard over the white noise of the world, he recognized it as a stringed instrument, a violin or a fiddle maybe, like the one ginger bloke with the unintelligible accent in his favorite pub at home in Insomnia played, the one who had teached him to drink like a man, the one whose songs were sad enough to bathe the whole room in tears, the one whose name was on the tip of Cor's tongue, but refused to come out, hiding in a safe corner of his mind.

     The Immortal shook his head like a dog after a bath. This was wrong. Not his way to think. During deployment he was an empty shell, trained well enough to automate any response, always focused on the task at hand, not getting lost in useless memories. He counted the length of his breaths, the length of the pauses inbetween, and the world got a little bit clearer. The melody was distinct now, a leitmotif repeating and changing, melting into parts of different melodies he almost remembered, and he felt them tearing at the corners of his consciousness. The idea to simply let his mind wander, to follow them to half-forgotten places, was strangely alluring. His hand reached for Forfex underneath his jacket, and only the touch of the cold metal – still cold, even so close to his body – set him at ease. He was here, and he was a blade, forged for duty.

     And yet, a day in summer, a lazy nap in the shade of a tree, a beautiful face in white clothing bringing them both strong wine, drinking from their mouth, and it felt like ages ago, when he was young, and...

     His grip around Forfex grew stronger, and he groaned. Was this memory even his own? Focus, by the Six, focus on your rage and your stubborness. Be a mule.

     He trudged along the river's edge, leaving footprints in the green that had vanished before he even completed the next step. Full of life, full of growth, but yet, it was but a copy of a copy, faded and reworked into something that was not even close to the real thing.

     He knew he still was on the right way, he just wished it led into any other direction, and soon enough it did.

 

Gilgamesh's arm pointed to the other side of the stream. Cor kept on walking, hoping to find a bridge or a ford, some way to cross the waters without trying to swim. He had used a branch from one of the trees to test the depths of the dark river, but the currents had almost ripped it from his hands before it was even fully submerged, and drowning here was not an option.

     “You are looking for something?”

     The traveller jerked around. There was a flat stone in the middle of the waves now that had not been there before, and on it a man, a magnificent creature like an ancient statue, his muscles and his hair rippled and shiny like the surface of the water. A loose white shirt barely hid his bronze skin, and eyes as dark as the river gazed at Cor in mild amusement.

     Indeed, it was a fiddle the Immortal had heard, and it rested pale as bone in the man's lap, and he bit the inside of his lip to supress his reflex to draw Forfex here and now.

     “For a way over the waters, yeah”, he managed, trying to show nothing but matter-of-factness and a face made of stone. He had taken an immediate dislike to the guy with the fiddle, as he lounged luxuriously on the grey and golden stone, every little movement indicating he was the lord of this place, a narcissistic bastard or a nobody that was way too full of himself.

     “Oh, is that so?” A chuckle like gurgling water. “But I see you at least brought the proper fee to cover what you'd owe me for that. Even though, looking at you, you did so unknowingly or by a lucky accident.”

     “And what is that supposed to be?” That came out as harsh as he felt, not as he wanted to say it. He was determined to stay polite, but the fiddler rubbed him the wrong way, and this whole place made emotions that usually stayed well under cover bubble up to the surface, and he _hated_ this place, and he was _scared_ and he _remembered_ all those damn times when he was a kid and scared to death and...

     Be. A. Mule.

     Show your teeth. Grin and bear it and kick him at the next opportunity.

     Be a mule.

 

     “The heart of a child, so it may play with the others below the waves and will be lonesome nevermore.” His fingenails glid over the strings, creating a tiny melody, a lullaby perhaps, written in the rare times when there was no war and it was sure you'd wake in the morning.

     Cor shook his head. “That is not mine to give.”

     “It is my price. You may try to find another way to cross the river, but you will drown and sink to the ground and those who live there will eat you whole.” The fiddler smiled with way too many teeth.

     “Is there no other way?”

     Cor felt himself measured, estimated and found worthy. Interesting enough, but barely so.

     “A kiss. That is all.”

     “You will help me and all I carry cross this river for a kiss?”

     “Ah, somebody tought you well enough to think about and formulate those clauses beforehand. Very well. I will bring you and everything you carry to the other side of the river, for the price of a kiss. And yes, in the same condition you are in now.”

     Cor was cut short by those words, for he indeed just wanted to add that. A kiss. It sounded acceptable. That would not be the first man he kissed. Maybe the strangest.

     “And how do we...?”

     The stone rose a bit, then a bit more. A big turtle, crafted from grey stone, shimmering an sparkling where the water had been, and it carried its passenger towards the bank, and as the fiddler rose on its shell, Cor was not sure if he saw legs or the tail of a serpent of the fins of a fish or all at once.

     “One step closer, my sweet traveler. Bow down to me, so I may reach those lips made of honey and wine.” A hand, cold and wet like the waves, stretched out, gently pulling the soldier's collar down, and as their lips met, Cor dove into those dark eyes like into the sea, and the waves crashed over him, and he was back at the seaside at home, sweaty from training. They started their jogs in the early morning, before the sun rose, so they could be back to the academy before the training started, and Philomelus had beamed at him and dragged him into the salty waters, and they had dunked each other and giggled like the boys they were, and as they came up from the waves and the sky was pink and blue and golden and their bodies were so close to each other, they shared a kiss. It was the first one, shy and clumsy, and they dove under the surface giggling like mad, but still hand in hand.

 

     When he woke on the other side of the river, he was dry and felt well rested, better rested since he had been since days. Forfex was there, and the hand was in his, and the clockwork heart under his jacket, and still, he felt like he had given away something precious, something irreplaceable.

     He turned the heart in his hands, wondering what it might have been and then, on a whim, he placed a kiss on it, for the poor boy had deserved at least one, even when it came too late.

     As he held it to the thin skin of his lips, his eyes closed, he felt it was still beating. Slow and faint, but steady, and his own heart stood still for a moment, overwhelmed by the rare feeling of happiness.

 


End file.
